


Half of me will always be you

by lostinfictionalworlds



Category: Glee
Genre: 18th Century, AU, Angst, Drama, Fluff, Happy Ending, Klaine, London, M/M, Musician!Blaine, Vampire!Kurt, Victorian Times, mentions of blood and feeding, mentions of sickness and dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinfictionalworlds/pseuds/lostinfictionalworlds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteenth Century, London, England.</p><p>Kurt; a lonely vampire, stuck, frozen in time in his youth is forced to roam the cobbled streets of London, among the rife sickness epidemic which is wiping out a large percent of the town's population. He spends his night time hours giving aid at the local hospital, and it's when he's there that he realizes he can not only give something to himself, but also to the poor patients quickly approaching the end of their lives. </p><p>It's also there when Kurt meets a certain street performer, also very sick; but with a lot left to give to this life, to this world. And to Kurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half of me will always be you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Riverance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riverance/gifts).



> Warnings;  
> This story does mention sickness and dying, but there are no major character deaths. Blaine is sick in the beginning of this story, but he gets better. There are mentions of blood and vampire feeding also. If you've read any of my stories before, you will know that I only do happy endings. This is surprisingly fluffy. 
> 
> Thank yous;  
> This story was written solely because of a wonderful prompt/suggestion by the ever so talented, Riverance. Thank you so much, dear, for giving me your art and imagination to work with, and for asking and allowing me to write this story to accompany it. I have loved every moment of this collaboration. 
> 
> Please, please go to her blog http://riverance.tumblr.com/ and check out not only this piece of art for this fic, but ALL of her work. She's a true gift to this fandom. 
> 
> Also a huge thank you to my wonderful, supportive beta's for this fic, Daltoneering and Diva-Blaine. You've been very helpful and wise and considerate of my little story. Much love.

 

_ London, England 1854 _

 

Kurt Hummel is damned, there is no other way around it. It’s what he thinks, it’s what he assumes, and it’s what he believes. It’s what he  _ knows _ . But only him. 

 

Over two centuries ago on an ill fated night his life was taken from him brutally and unforgivably, and in return he was offered immortality. 

 

A life for a life. 

 

Only , he would never have chosen his new life for himself. An endless life of un-living and unloving. Not remembering what real love, and warmth, and taste could feel like. A life alone. One where he must prey on the innocent lives of others.     

 

But Kurt is not like that. He tries not to condone it. He tries to find reason and make excuses that even though his soul no longer belongs to him and his heart sits frozen in his chest forever more; he can prove that there can still be some goodness to be found pumping through his ice cold veins, through a dormant blood stream.

 

Even for his over two hundred years of age, Kurt still is as handsome and fresh faced as he was when he was just seventeen years old. From the day he was taken, to be precise, three months before his eighteenth birthday. A young boy, diligently becoming a man in a town full of hopes and dreams and new prospects.

 

Kurt loved clothes. Loved to wear them and design them. His notebooks were filled with many, many sketches and his spare time was spent at the market negotiating prices for jacquard, silk, and wool. 

 

Kurt always looked fabulous in what he wore and how he styled his soft, light brown hair swept up from his features. His face was creamy pale, adorned with high, striking cheekbones; his ocean hued eyes would flash with the sunlight.   

 

Kurt still looks like that now, youthful and eye-catching, dressed in the smartest and most charming of outfits. Like a real gent, a nobleman. Even as young as he appears, he is never stopped or questioned for loitering on the streets. 

 

Though soft ,gentle, innocent and eerily quiet as he is, there is something about his silent yet stern demeanour which keeps the other city folk at a safe distance from him.

 

Kurt often tells himself it’s for the best. For the dark maturity which swirls dangerously inside of him is something that he doesn’t wish for any other to find out about.  

 

He spends his days hiding from the midday sun in his spacious but almost empty quarters, in a rather exclusive part of town. It’s a building that many would love to reside in but cannot afford. 

 

It wasn’t difficult for Kurt to commandeer the rights and ownership to the building which hadn’t been lived in since the last elderly tenant died some time ago of natural causes. 

 

Being a Vampire, money or anything materialistic at all is meaningless for Kurt. He has no use for it. No use for a grand four poster bed to sleep on, or a fully stocked kitchen to use. His lounge consists of a long deep red, velvet covered couch which faces an upstanding, dark wood piano in the corner of the room beside the large bay window alcove. 

 

Kurt sits on that couch. He sits there and looks at the piano. He wills himself to want to play again, like he used to as a boy. To feel the need of song and music fill his body and itch in his finger tips and tingle at the tip of his tongue.

 

But it doesn’t happen.

 

In one of the many vacant bedrooms his apartment holds, there is a bed made up of soft, white sheets and shades of plush, peacock blue covers tucked up against the far wall. Even with no use for it, he keeps that bed ready and made, looking pristine like the bed he had in his childhood bedroom.

 

In another room there is only a desk. A desk with a basket of needles of many sorts and sizes sitting atop of it. Stacks of coloured fabric and different textured materials sit in neatly organized piles along the wooden surface. Not a crinkle or finger print to be seen.   

 

At night it’s almost a ritual of Kurt’s now to travel to the local hospital and volunteer at/inpatient wards that need his aid the most. 

 

His mother, before she died many decades ago, and before Kurt was pulled from her maternal grasp, was a nurse. A very kind and caring woman. Kurt is forever thankful that she was his mother. That she taught him through nurture and gave to him through nature the ability of care and compassion.

 

Kurt hates to think about what kind of monster he could have become without her influence.      

 

Most boroughs of London have been hit with a deadly case of cholera, an epidemic dangerously flooding its way around the city, rumoured to be caused by contaminated water. The symptoms are awful; severe stomach cramps and incurable stabs of pain. Violent bouts of sickness which can lead to extreme hydration, leaving victims with blue ,wrinkled skin.

 

Kurt has heard about it all through the town crier, and the news he delivers on a daily basis. He has witnessed many, many pour souls brought in to the hospital and never sent back out again. The disease is gripping the population its fatal grasp, ripping people from their homes and tearing families apart, and Kurt can hardly bear it.

 

The first time his moral compassion had gotten the better of him was months before, when an elderly man had been wheeled into a private room, screaming and crying and begging for his life.

 

The nurse on duty had left his bedside to go and fetch a washcloth. On her way out only Kurt’s exquisitely acute hearing could hear her mumble that the pour soul wouldn’t last the rest of the night.

 

Kurt made a decision. He sat by the man’s bed, held his hand and shushed him kindly while he dropped his fangs and sunk them into the man’s wrist. Being a Vampire, among many things, means that he cannot catch human illnesses. He can’t become ill at all.

 

It only lasted seconds, and by the time the nurse had came back, the man was lying peacefully in a sleep from which he wouldn’t wake, a serene look upon his face for he was no longer hurting. Kurt had cleaned the man’s wrist, licked the puncture marks until they were closed and fully healed and had fled from the ward.

 

The next day, while wallowing in his self pity behind the closed heavy drapes of his townhouse, Kurt had felt something that he hadn’t felt before. An emotion so strong and gripping that it shook him from inside out.

 

An empathic good deed. Not an entirely selfless good deed, but the young, beautiful un-aging man with no beating heart and apparently no moral compass had saved another soul. A human life may have been the price to pay but as Kurt feels the man’s blood flow through his body, filling and feeding him, providing the necessary strength and nutrients; he knows that a soul is no longer suffering the way he has had to endure it for two hundred years. 

 

A soul has been laid to rest and Kurt has been fed for another day. Another day where he’s able to save another life.

 

And so it goes on…

 

*

 

The day is miserable. Not only does it project up in the dull grey, cloudy skies but in the atmosphere down below. The town square is so empty and quiet that it’s almost a little strangely oppressive. 

 

It’s not like it used to be. London was the place to go, to  _ be. _ Filled with all kinds of promise and opportunities. The cobbled streets were hard to find space to walk on at one point and the old crooked little buildings which lined the streets were always full to the brim with life. Some were boutiques and cafes, some had merchants trying to sell their homemade wares. Every door and window was open, welcoming people into the heart of the charming bustle of the town.

 

The air was filled with music from street performers with their instruments made of wood and string. Even if the sun was not out and pouring down onto the market square, there would be dancing and singing and laughter.

 

Not now.

 

Blaine Anderson still hopes, he still dreams and he still  _ wants _ . He wants  _ so _ badly. He wants to be able to play his trusty fiddle on the curb of the street and have people enjoy his music and throw pennies into his cap at his feet.

 

As he sits, slumped up against a bricked wall on an uneven cobbled pavement, he wishes. He wishes for the owner of a well known cafe to open its doors to him and invite him inside to play for the patrons, like he had so many times before. 

 

But it’s not like it used to be. There’s hardly anybody left to sit at the tables and snap their fingers and clap their hands.

 

Blaine, like many of London’s population, is unwell. And he _ wants _ so desperately not to be. But he’s sick, and with every day that passes and brings with it a new wave of sickness and deadly silence, Blaine feels himself growing weaker, tumbling towards the edge with no cure or way to stop it.

 

He fights and he fights hard, but as he rises to his feet to stumble home for the day, a wave of dizziness wraps around him like a hurricane and he’s sent back down to his knees, coughing and spluttering. 

 

Eventually he’s able to rise back up to his feet again, and with a smile plastered on his face he picks up his violin case and heads home. 

 

Tomorrow is a new day, after all.  

 

*

 

Blaine had never been wealthy. His family were good, hardworking people who never took anything for granted and when Blaine decided to cross the water to London to find work as a musician after leaving an education many, years ago, his parents had given him all that they could and sent him on his way with well wishes.

 

Unfortunately money does not last forever like thoughts and well wishes can, especially in a place as extravagant as the Soho district of London.

 

However, Blaine had done well keeping a very small but pleasant enough two roomed flat up above a corner café. Nevertheless, as time had pressed on and the outbreak taking over the city helped to cause Blaine’s health to disintegrate, so did the up keeping of his home. 

 

Now he sits at his tiny, old battered kitchen table and surveys the problems of his once happy, unbroken home, with his violin case propped up against the wobbly table leg.

 

The pipes will not heat up and the water will not boil enough to make tea or run a bath. There’s a lengthy crack in the plastered and wooden beamed ceiling which has left sufficient space for a drip, more like a constant flow on rainy days. A family of mice has taken up residence under the creaky floorboards and will appear with a squeak and a scrabble of claws during the night when Blaine tries to sleep fitfully on his rickety old sofa-cum-bed. 

 

As if all that isn’t enough, the window above the sink in the kitchenette area lets in a terrible draft, which no matter in winter, spring, summer or autumn, never lets up.

 

This really isn’t the best home for Blaine to live in, especially with illness looming over him. But there really is very little other choice right now. 

 

Work; if he can even _call_ it that, is slow. Slower than usual. He needs new instruments, new music to read and play from. He needs money to do that. And he needs people to listen to him and give him money. 

 

But Blaine keeps his head up, ambitious and undeterred. He’s always been this way. It’s what keeps him going, what keeps him strong and healthy and living, even if not in the physical sense. 

 

Blaine knows that this time around is different. The epidemic is taking over; it’s pulling people down, changing them, and keeping them locked up indoors. Their livelihood is long gone.

 

And Blaine knows in no uncertain terms that the same is happening to him.

 

*

 

Kurt’s heart; though it no longer serves any function, hurts as it sits lifeless in his chest. Listening to the sounds of sick people, smelling their bodies deteriorating and the pungent scent of their fear is almost as painful and terrifying as the disease itself. 

 

He makes his way quickly and quietly through the darkened corridors of the hospital towards the familiar ward he tends to once or twice a week. The glowing light from the hanging candelabras brighten up the concrete flooring in front of him in small circular patches every few steps.

 

His face is familiar around here now. The way he is always so intellectually dressed is recognizable and when he enters the ward, the kind but haggard face of the old ward sister welcomes him with a smile and points to the bay where new arrivals are given a bed.

 

Kurt has been given the role of  _ carer _ . He watches over the new arrivals while the staff busy themselves with the other already very sick patients. There is very little that can be done but to care for these patients and offer them time and attention.

 

Kurt is smart and subtle  when performing his  _ duties  _ here at the hospital. Though as caring as he is, he never shows any extreme interest in his patients. Nothing that would make him appear suspicious. He never lingers too long or preys on those he knows are getting around the clock bedside care. 

 

He doesn’t always  _ take _ every night he is there either. But he will watch and listen and wait. He will decipher who is in need of him the most. Sometimes the patients are already on death’s door, waiting helplessly for their end. Sometimes the patients have been able find aid with the hospital sooner than others and treated to care and appropriate medicine for a longer period of time before their symptoms either lessen or worsen.

 

Tonight the bay is quiet. There is a lady sleeping over in the bed in the corner who’s  been here for four days. Kurt will talk or read to her, but for the most part he’s chosen to leave her be since her symptoms aren’t prominent enough for him to intervene right now.

 

The other two beds in the small side bay are vacant apart from one. The last bed, pressed up to the wall by the entrance nearest to the nurses station in case emergency assistance is needed, is occupied tonight by a man who Kurt has not seen before.

 

He’s hidden mostly by the nest of light bed sheets he has wrapped around himself. His body is curled into a shivering lump atop the thin mattress and Kurt can just make out a mop of dark curls, matted to his head and to the pillowcase. 

 

With not much else to do Kurt strolls forward and sits at the chair beside the man’s bed. Sometimes his presence at the patient’s bedside is a comfort to them, he knows this.

 

The man’s shoulders bunch up and he shivers under the thin sheets. Kurt can hear his breathing coming and going in short, harsh puffs. 

 

Kurt leans in and bends his neck down, he can just make out the shadow of the man’s face with a candle flickering on a table behind them. The man has an olive toned complexion, but Kurt can see patches of mottled pale blue over the man’s shoulder and neck where the disease is slowly starting to show on his skin.

 

A trickle of sweat beads up on the man’s temple and then runs in a light trail down his face, pooling at the juncture of his neck and collarbone. Kurt reaches out and swipes a cloth from the small dish at the bottom of the hospital bed. He doesn’t think twice about wiping it gently over the poor man’s forehead, down his neck and quickly over his shoulders and back up again. 

 

The man shivers slightly and Kurt leans back to dabble the cloth into some fresh water which has been poured into a dish. The man starts to stir in his restless sleep, he sighs deeply and shifts, twisting until he’s lying flat on his back, letting the covers drop down to his chest.

 

Kurt barely bites back his gasp. 

 

The man’s dark, bushy eyebrows are drawn together, knitted with obvious discomfort. His eyes are squeezed shut and his rose pink lips are pressed together tightly. He has long, lovely black eyelashes which fan out, almost touching the peeks of his rounded cheeks.

 

His skin is a little blotched and wrinkled in places, with purpling bags under his eyes even when they’re closed. There are smudges of soot and tiny prints of dirt dotted around his face, which Kurt knows are not from the reason why he’s here in the hospital but from his life up to this moment. 

 

Kurt wonders about this man, wonders where he came from and why and how he is here? Did he come from the streets? Doesn’t he have a home? A family?

 

But above all that, no matter the marks on his skin and the obvious signs of aging and a long and hard life on his face and skin, Kurt can see this man was,  _ is,  _ beautiful. His features are rugged but handsome, nothing that a shave and some soap and hot water couldn’t fix.  

 

_ It’s a shame, a real shame,  _ Kurt thinks as he lightly traces  his forefinger down the man’s face.

 

He knows that his touch is somewhat cooler than a typical human being’s, but not suspiciously so. He hopes that this mere touch can help this poor man in some way. 

 

Kurt doesn’t want to take this man’s life, but he  _ wants _ to take away his pain and misery. A man  _ this _ lovely should not have to suffer like this. Not when Kurt has been granted a new life so ruthlessly yet so easily. 

 

He traces the man’s lovely but worn face one more time, swirling the pad of his finger tip over the apple of the man’s dark, coarsely unshaven cheek.  

 

For a moment, the man stops shivering and his fierce frown starts to disappear. A slight whimper followed by a breathy sigh escapes his puffy pink lips and Kurt can see the man’s body start to relax and sink down into the mattress, which Kurt knows will not be all that comfortable. 

 

_ Maybe not tonight, _ Kurt thinks. Tonight he will let him sleep peacefully. Something that the man may have not done for quite some time, Kurt figures. 

 

Kurt sits back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other and watches, almost mesmerized as the sick patient falls into a deep sleep, unknowingly lulled by Kurt’s touch and attentive gaze. 

 

*

 

The next evening Kurt arrives earlier than usual at the hospital. The sun is just disappearing below the rooftops of the buildings and the cobbled streets are left under a blanket of darkening shades of blue sky. 

 

“Mr. Hummel, you’re back again so soon,” the  matron says to him in greeting as he ducks into the ward. Her accent is a thick Northern drawl , soft, rolling with deeply accentuated vowels. 

 

Kurt lowers his chin. “I hadn’t much to do this evening.” He replies, not quite meeting her eye. “I thought I’d be better use here than sitting at home.”

 

“Very well. We always appreciate your help and kindness here.” The Matron nods to him with a smile and gestures towards the small bay where he was directed to last night. 

 

Kurt smiles softly to himself. He had hoped that he would be asked to attend that bay again. 

 

When he enters he notices firstly that the lady from the far corner is vacant from her bed. The sheets are pressed and folded neatly back into place. Either her condition increased dramatically through the night while Kurt was away and they lost her, or she became well enough to leave the ward.

 

Kurt doesn’t take too much time to think about it as his attention immediately is turned to the man whose bedside he sat so vigilantly at the night before.

 

The man is lying in his bed, on his back with his legs spread and his arms hanging off of the side of the mattress. The bed covers have been thrown back to a lump at his feet and his thin, white gown is clinging to his body with patches of sweat. He’s visibly shaking, hard and uncontrollably, though appears to  still be sleeping somehow,  his eyelids clenched shut though flickering distressingly now and then. Those lovely lashes of his twitch against his skin.   

 

Kurt immediately goes to him, takes one of his clammy hands in his own and squeezes softly, showing his presence. The man stops shaking as a breathy whimper falls passed his lips followed by a rasped cough. 

 

He stills and Kurt is momentarily relieved that he seems to have settled the man and given him some source of comfort for the time being. 

 

Until suddenly the man launches up to a sitting position, clutching at his stomach. Kurt sits back, he’s seen this reaction before, and he knows what’s coming. The man leans to the opposite side of the bed, thankfully away from Kurt and violently vomits on to the ward’s floor.

 

Kurt stands from his chair and makes room for the nurses who immediately come to the man’s aid. From the sounds he is making it wouldn’t have been hard for them to hear. That is after all why he has been placed in the bed nearest the nurse’s station. Kurt knows this now; it usually means that they know the patient will need extra care, but unfortunately also meaning that they won’t need care for very long.

 

“Anderson. Blaine Devon Anderson.” Kurt hears one of the nurses say to the other as they mop up the mess and settle the man,  _ Blaine,  _ back into a pitiful state of sleep. “He’s twenty eight. Street musician. Brought in by a trader after collapsing during a song. Poor bugger.”

 

Kurt’s eyebrows rise in surprise. The man looks to be a lot older than what he apparently is. And the dirt on his face is not from living helplessly out on the streets or begging in doorways, but from spending most days trying to earn a living out on the infected streets of London. No wonder he’s so ill. 

 

Kurt lifts his gaze and only then does he notice the dark, wooden, long and lean box propped up against the far side of Blaine’s bed beside the wall. A box obviously housing an instrument of some sort. 

 

Kurt’s dead heart somehow aches for this man.

 

After the nurses check Blaine’s temperature, dampen his head with a cloth and leave him be with a courtesy nod to Kurt, he scoots his chair a little closer to Blaine’s bedside. 

 

This poor man is suffering and Kurt actually can help him. Not in the way that he truly wants to but in a way that he knows will take away Blaine’s pain. That has to be good enough. He will do it soon. Not now but later, when the nurses leave their station to attend to another bay.

 

Kurt licks his lips in sorrowful anticipation, as he takes Blaine’s hand and begins to hum a slow and gentle tune to him. 

 

*  

 

Kurt doesn’t sleep, he  _ can’t,  _ but he does occasionally close his eyes and zone out in to a realm of calm and peacefulness for many minutes, sometimes hours at a time. When he comes to it must be in the middle of the night as the candles are not lit and there is an air of deadly silence. 

 

Most of the patients must be sleeping soundly, and the night staff will be getting some rest at their desks while they can.

 

Kurt breathes in deeply. If he lets himself, he can smell Blaine’s blood pumping through his veins. He can sense his discomfort and feel his pain. But, he can  _ smell  _ his  _ blood. _

 

Kurt’s hands cling to his dress pants as he tries to muster some self control, some much needed respect and restraint. Slowly and carefully he opens his eyes, lifts his chin, and looks to where Blaine in lying in his bed.  

 

Blaine is looking at him. His eyes are for once, finally open and he’s looking right at Kurt. His lids are hooded, and those eyelashes that Kurt has become so fond of are spread out, pointing in all directions. 

 

Blaine’s eyes are a little glazed, Kurt can tell that there’s not much life left in them. Oh how he would have loved to look into those eyes and see them wide and bright and glimmering. The colours of Blaine’s irises are as lovely as he is. A deep green with a marble effect of honey and whisky gold hues.

 

“H-hello,” Blaine croaks. 

 

Kurt startles a little. Some scary creature of the night he is. 

 

“Hi,” Kurt replies, soft and quiet.

 

Blaine squints at him, and with his head pushed back against the pillow,  his dark hair splayed all around, Kurt could be bold enough to say that Blaine looks rather adorable. 

 

“Are-are you my nurse? A doctor?” Blaine looks at Kurt quizzically but he never looks away. It’s almost as if he  _ can’t _ .

 

“No,” Kurt answers graciously. “I’m your carer. I volunteer here.” Kurt moves to stand, ready to busy himself and make himself useful to Blaine. He’s not quite sure what else  _ to do _ . Not  _ now _ anyway. 

 

He’s suddenly stopped by Blaine’s arm stretching out sideways and his clammy hand reaching out to pat at Kurt’s knee. “Please don’t go.” Blaine rasps, and his eyes are wide and panicked. His breathing starts to speed up into little rapid little puffs.  

 

Kurt drops back down immediately and shakes his head side to side mechanically. He settles himself back into the chair, even scooting forward a few extra inches so that there is no more space between the chair’s leg and Blaine’s bed frame. “I’m here. I’m here, it’s alright. I won’t go anywhere. I was just going to get you some water.”

 

“M’okay,” Blaine mumbles, easing his arm back in, obviously placated that Kurt won’t be going anywhere.

 

Kurt is a little overwhelmed, he doesn’t quite know what to think. He never interacts with the patients like this. Has never spent this amount of time with one of them before. They normally never make it past this point.  

 

“You’ve been here,” Blaine mumbles. “Last night. I felt someone here. Was you, wasn’t it?” 

 

“Yes,” Kurt answers slowly, carefully. “That was me. I, I’m Kurt.” He keeps his eyes focused on the glass of water he’s currently pouring for Blaine from a jug on his nightstand. 

 

“Kurt,” Blaine repeats a little breathlessly. He says it like the word is fun and light to say on his tongue. “Hi, Kurt. I’m Blaine.”

 

“I know.” Kurt smiles and Blaine offers him the shakiest of smiles in return. “Hello.”

 

Kurt says nothing while he passes Blaine the water. “Thank you, Kurt.” 

 

“Drink up, small sips though,” Kurt says, and nods..

 

“Not just for the water. Thank you for being here with me. I don’t like being alone, especially in a place I’m not familiar with. I don’t like feeling sick and helpless.”

 

Kurt aches for him. He feels things that he never thought he would feel for a human, besides compassion and sympathy. 

 

“I’ll stay with you.” Kurt says, not quite sure where the words or the thought is coming from.  _ For as long as it takes,  _ he thinks but does not say. “I promise.” 

 

Blaine nods, and his stare lingers on Kurt’s face for as long as he can until his lids, heavy and dark in patches, start to slip closed and his breathing evens out. 

 

Kurt waits for a few moments; he watches and he listens and most importantly he stays like he promised Blaine he would. When he’s sure that Blaine won’t be waking up again anytime soon but he’s comfortable for the meantime, he reaches out and gently places a palm on top of one of Blaine’s hands, covering his knuckles. 

 

He’s sure that he can feel and even see Blaine flinch at the slight change of temperature, even in his subconscious. But then Blaine’s warm skin seems to seep through into Kurt’s icy cold touch and Kurt realizes for once in his life that he’s not just comforting somebody,  _ he’s  _ being  _ comforted. _

 

And somehow, his thirst suddenly doesn’t seem so important anymore. 

 

*

 

Blaine stays in that bed in that bay for the next three days and nights. And as soon as the sun sets and the sky darkens, Kurt is there with him, by his side at his hospital bed for every one of those days.

 

Their conversations are usually short and minimal and if just a little awkward, but Kurt doesn’t mind. He patiently listens to Blaine tell him about his music career, his love of instruments and singing. Kurt supplies a short story or two about his own life as subtly as he can manage from time to time. 

 

There are lingering glances in passing, a hesitant brush of fingers or press of hands whenever Kurt is passing Blaine some water or helping him get settled into a more comfortable position. Blaine is usually asleep more than he’s awake and Kurt cannot be sure that he’s always both mentally and physically sturdy during his waking hours, but he being a vampire gives him a very good judge of character and special skills like being able to sense when a human’s mind is sound or not. 

 

He does not impose on Blaine’s mind space, he  _ does not _ . And certainly not intentionally. But he has been able to gather that what he appears to be feeling for Blaine seems to be reciprocated, very much so.      

 

He likes the way Blaine smiles at him. The way he looks at him and the way he talks to him when his voice isn’t croaky or rasped. Kurt has never felt so compelled and so intrigued by another person. It’s like he’s addicted to Blaine. His looks and his voice and his sweet nature and just  _ everything. _

 

And he knows that it’s not just Blaine’s blood he’s after. 

 

Kurt is not ignorant . He knows why Blaine is here and why he hasn’t been discharged from the bay. Although he seems brighter and happier whenever Kurt is with him, Kurt knows that underneath it all he is still sick. He coughs and he sputters, his breathing is harsh and wheezy and he can barely keep down a basic, bland meal and a few glasses of water. 

 

His eyes look sunken in to his face and his complexion grows paler and miscoloured everyday. Though, to Kurt, he’s still the most beautiful, fascinating thing Kurt has ever taken the opportunity to spend time with. 

 

Kurt can and will admit that to himself, but nobody else.

 

* 

 

It’s on the fifth night after their friendship blossoms, when tragedy strikes. Kurt makes his way to Blaine’s bay as usual but stops in his tracks in the archway of the bay when he finds Blaine’s bed empty.

 

“He’s been moved to rest, dear,” comes a quiet, gentle voice in his ear accompanied by a hand on his shoulder.

 

Kurt turns to find the ward matron standing behind him with a sad look in her eyes and a downward tilt to her chin.

 

“He- he hasn’t-has he…”

 

“He lives still, dear,” she says calmly as she points to the smallest bay at the very end of the hallway where there are fewer lamps and people milling about. “Only just,” she mumbles as Kurt thanks her with a nod and starts walking towards the darkened, quietened bay.

 

Kurt knows what this means. He knows where Blaine is and why. He’s here to rest.  _ To die.  _ His time has come. And with that comes the time for Kurt to say goodbye and do his part. After all it is the reason why he’s been here all along. Isn’t it?

 

Blaine is alone in the bay when Kurt enters. If it wasn’t for his specialized eyesight he probably wouldn’t have seen him. He looks not much more than a small lump of covers, a fixture to the mattress. 

 

The small wooden case that holds Blaine’s musical instrument; a violin he remembers Blaine telling him, is propped up against one of the metal legs of the bed.  

 

It saddens Kurt that it has come to this for Blaine. That he has no family or friends around him to spend the last remaining hours of his life with.

 

Carefully, Kurt approaches the bed to find Blaine asleep. Although he would have loved to have seen Blaine’s eyes for one last time, to commit them to photo memory, it’s probably for the best.

 

He draws the privacy curtain around the bed. Blaine doesn’t even flinch at the squeaky sound of metal on metal and the heavy thump of the curtain sweeping across the floor. 

 

Kurt frowns at him with sympathy and with a feeling  that he can’t quite place. A need for Blaine to wake up, to be better. Even if it means that Kurt will starve for longer than planned. Kurt is already feeling weak and a little more frail than usual. Because of his promise and his bedside assistance to Blaine he hasn’t been taking care of himself. He hasn’t been feeding or taking a reprieve the way his body needs to.

 

He knows what he needs to do in order to feel safe and strong again. And he’s just moments away from it. He will feed from Blaine, he will take the blood that Blaine will sadly no longer need or use and Kurt will use it to regain strength and health and—

 

It comes to him from out of nowhere. Like a bomb exploding in his mind with a million tiny, shattered pieces of thought and ideas coming to surface. A whole load of  _ what if _ s?

 

Kurt bites his lip, careful of his fangs which are threatening to dangle like some kind of warning.  _ Can  _ he do this?  _ Will  _ he do this?

 

His sensitive hearing picks up the sounds of the ward staff at their station. There is very little conversation. It’s late, growing later by the minute and Kurt knows that only the minimal amount of staff are on duty and some will be taking a break to rest their weary heads. A door opens and then clicks softly closed again in the distance. There’s a shuffle, some rustling, snuffles and snores and not much else to be heard 

 

Kurt quickly looks around the room he’s in once more. The four walls are bare and empty, cracked with old, dry paint. Miserable. They look like they’re closing in on him and poor Blaine in his bed with every passing second. His eyes sweep over and down to Blaine. Lying there all helpless and sick and sad. He deserves better than this.  _ More. _

 

Kurt looks down deeply at Blaine, to the lines of his wrinkled skin and the frown on his forehead. And although in that moment Blaine appears lifeless and just moments away from ending his pain and suffering and leaving this world, Kurt sees something.

 

He sees  _ life.  _ He sees Blaine in years to come with a dazzling grin and a sparkle in his eye. His violin in his hand and a spring in his step. 

 

No, Blaine is not ready to die and Kurt is not yet ready to lose his new friend he never realized he had or even needed up until just moments ago. 

 

Kurt makes a decision, and it’s not a difficult one.    

 

*

 

Carrying Blaine’s frail and sleep heavy body through town in the dark, still of night and into his home takes no time and effort at all for Kurt. He’s too fast and lithe to be seen, too quick and careful to even be heard. He knows that nobody is watching them. 

 

Kurt was able to cast a few memory blanks and alternative trains of thoughts to a few of the ward staff, making him able to slip past with Blaine with barely a blink in their direction. For all they know and assume, Blaine had slipped away peacefully in the middle of the night and his body had been disposed of. It’s not far from the truth after all. 

 

Blaine is safe now here with Kurt; he has a chance. For now. Hopefully for longer still.

 

The heavy drapes which cover the large windows of the entrance hall and living area are already drawn as Kurt keeps them each and every day. His home looks a little sad like this. Large and wide and almost regal , yet dark and empty. 

 

Without even having to think twice about it Kurt walks through to the rear of the building, with Blaine still cradled carefully in his arms and carries him into the bedroom, the only room with a bed. A room where Kurt rarely ventures. 

 

Blaine’s violin case dangles from Kurt’s wrist where he has the handle looped around his arm. He could not take Blaine and leave that behind. 

 

Kurt gently lays Blaine down on the mattress, still sleeping, if not a little fitfully, his body is breaking out into a cold sweat. Kurt keeps the covers tucked down by his feet and makes sure the hospital gown isn’t too tight around his neck. He places the wooden case on the floor next to the bed for safekeeping.

 

He disappears as quick as a flash to the bathroom and returns just seconds later with a damp wash cloth which he lays over Blaine’s forehead and an empty glass tumbler which he puts down on the rustic wooden nightstand.

 

As Blaine’s sleeping but still restless body seems to settle into what seems to be a more comfortable sleep Kurt leaves the room again. This time, he takes a little longer to come back.

 

He’s never heard of  _ this _ before. What  _ he’s _ about to do. He just doesn’t  _ know.  _ Will it work? Will it have the desired effect he’s looking for? Will there be a happy ending if he goes along with this erratic plan of his?

 

But he wants to do it. Oh does he want to. To at least try. He’ll take whatever chances necessary, it’s not as if Blaine has any other better options. 

 

When he comes back into the room he has taken his outdoor layers off and is now in his dark trousers, socks and a white dress shirt loosened at the collar and wrists. He pads softly across the small room, with its walls washed with a pale blue, and sits on the edge of the bed where Blaine lies.

 

He has one sleeve of his shirt rolled up to his elbow and as he slowly raises his arm to his face, his pale pink lips part as his fangs descend. 

 

He’s hungry. He’s thirsty. His mouth feels dry and his fangs too big and too sharp in his gums.

 

But this? This feeling of what he’s about to do compared to  _ that _ feeling is more overwhelming and overpowering than anything he’s ever felt before. 

 

Blaine’s condition is worsening by the minute, his intakes of breath are becoming more and shallow and his complexion a sickly shade of grey. Time is up.

 

Without thinking anymore about it Kurt lifts his wrist to his mouth and digs his fangs deep into his own wrist. The texture suddenly flooding and surrounding his mouth is thick and wet. The flavor is bland tasteless against his tongue. Like the equivalent of a human drinking a glass of tepid water. Or maybe worse. 

 

Though his taste buds aren’t too impressed, his nose picks up the tattletale tang of blood. It’s strong and rich to his sensitive sense of smell and before his throat begins to work on reflex his fangs release and pull back from his skin. 

 

Kurt pulls back his hand and takes a neatly folded handkerchief from his trouser pocket to wipe at his mouth. He picks up the empty glass from the night stand beside Blaine, holds it underneath his open wound and twists his wrist on an angle so that the scarlet droplets of blood are forced to trickle from his arm down into the glass with a tiny plopping sound.

 

The clear rounded edges of the glass are stained in rose petal red by the time Kurt takes a few more moments to allow the blood to run free from his wrist. A few more drops after that, the glass is almost one third full.

 

Kurt uses his handkerchief to wipe the glass carefully, free of any splatters or smudges. He licks at the open wound on his wrist and waits for the special healing agents in his saliva to get to work.

 

Once the wound is no more than a small, fading pink scar on his wrist, Kurt looks back at Blaine. He sits himself more comfortably on the edge of the bed, just next to where Blaine’s arm is lying lifelessly next to his heaving chest which is causing his to wheeze even though he is still heavily asleep.

 

Kurt wastes no time. He’s leans down so that he is just a few inches away from Blaine’s face. He carefully curls a hand around the nape of Blaine’s neck, sliding his fingers into Blaine’s dark, sweat damp curls. With a tilt of his hand he encourages Blaine’s neck to bend and rise easily with his gentle assistance and just as his chin bobs forward Kurt presses the glass to Blaine’s lips and tilts it upwards.

 

Blaine is not drinking from the glass. Not consciously. Kurt manages to twist the glass so that the thin rim slips just slightly between Blaine’s plump parted lips, so faded and discolored that they’re almost white. 

 

Until the blood hits. 

 

Kurt does not right the glass until every last drop of the blood is welling in the parted seam of Blaine’s lips. Blaine’s lips and the skin up above and below his mouth are tinged darkly with the substance. 

Kurt sets the glass down and uses his thumb to gently pull at Blaine’s chin. His mouth opens wider and the blood disappears into his mouth as his throat starts working on it’s own accord.

 

Blaine stirs and Kurt gently shushes him while he encourages him to swallow, like a mother to her babe. He cradles Blaine as close and careful as he can while trying not to stop his flow of swallowing the blood. 

 

Kurt doesn’t even know if he’s given Blaine the right amount or if his blood will suffice to Blaine’s needs at all. This could make Blaine worse, it could kill him. But it could also make him better. It could buy him more time and that thought alone encourages Kurt to keep going until Blaine has swallowed all of the blood down.

 

If this works, if Blaine survives the night or even just the next few hours then Kurt can always repeat the process. He can add to the amount and make the feedings more frequent. But all he can do now is wait and hope.

 

Blaine smacks his lips together when the blood is gone, he even licks them a little subconsciously and tries to raise a hand to his throat, though Kurt stops him and guides his hands to rest together on top of his chest. His eyelids flicker but he stays asleep as Kurt gets up from the bed, blurs out of the room as quick as lightening to dispose of the bloodied glass and returns with a wash cloth. 

 

Tenderly, Kurt wipes around Blaine’s mouth, strokes his hair and after a few moments he tucks him up under the covers of the bed. He checks the time on is pocket watch and watches Blaine’s face and his chest, he checks his pulse now and then, his temperature and looks for any signs of unwanted behavior. 

 

A short while later, Blaine is sleeping almost like a corpse, his breathing is heavy and his chest rises and falls in rhythm. Reluctantly Kurt gets up from the bed and with slow, hesitant he steps leaves the room.

 

It pains him to leave Blaine. He does not want to and for now Blaine seems stable and as comfortable as he can be. But if the worse should happen, If Blaine falls sick again before Kurt is able to feed him more blood, Kurt can simply not be there to watch his patient, his friend,  _ his Blaine _ , die.

 

*

 

The sun is just starting to rise with a hazy, orange light when Kurt enters Blaine’s bedroom for the first time since he left him hours ago. The light filters in through the very slight gaps in the drapes and spreads across the floorboards in a hand fan shape of slices, all the way up to the bed. 

 

Kurt eyes are trained on the light on the floor as his footsteps follow the trail and take him up to the bed. His knees almost hit the soft, cushion of the mattress before Kurt finally looks up to Blaine’s body on the bed.

 

Kurt is met with a dark, heavy gaze of amber and burnt gold. His shoulders sag with relief.  _ Blaine is alive _ . Alive and very much awake.

 

Blaine’s skin is still pale but no longer a sickly shade, his eyes are not as sunken and his cheek bones not as stark or prominent. Kurt allows himself to celebrate silently and to hope just a little bit more. 

 

“How do you feel?” Kurt asks Blaine. He shifts on the spot and toys with the idea of sitting on the bed beside Blaine but then settles for just standing over him, watching him.  _ Guarding him. _

 

Blaine turns his head on the pillow and rolls his eyes right and left to look around the room, before settling his gaze back on to Kurt. He twists his face into a frown. 

 

“This is not the hospital.” He eventually replies. His voice is low and deep, croaked and rasped like any fitful sleep would do to a person, but his tone is not accusatory. It’s more curious.

 

Kurt had not thought about this. He hadn’t allowed himself to think passed the stage of getting Blaine off of death’s door. Thankfully he’s quick on his feet to come up with an appropriate response. “The-uh…the hospital had no beds for you. It was…awful. What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

Blaine raises an eyebrow and tries to sit up against the pillows. Kurt helps him and quickly averts his gaze when the blanket falls to Blaine’s hips and his hospital gown falls open at the collar. 

 

Sick or not, Blaine’s body is compact and muscular. He is very much a sight for sore eyes, and that’s even when clothed. “Um. I-I remember being in a small room. It was dark and cold. I felt alone.” Blaine swallows hard and Kurt ignores his better judgment and holds out a hand to Blaine.

 

Thankfully Blaine meets Kurt’s hand with his own, he entwines their fingers and rests their joined hands on the mattress beside his body. Kurt takes that opportunity to sit on the edge of the mattress and to his delight Blaine even shuffles over a little for him.

 

“You weren’t alone.” Kurt finally replies. “I was there. I promised I wouldn’t leave you. But, Blaine- they…they had you situated in a room to… to rest. There was no longer care for you…there.” Blaine’s eyebrows scrunch up in question until they rise high up on his forehead and a look of realization softly crosses his face.

 

“Oh.  _ Oh. _ I- um- I—”

 

“It’s ok.” Kurt tells him. “I couldn’t watch you like that. I hope you don’t mind.” He keeps his voice as calm and sure as he can, though his words are not very far from the truth at all. “I just hope that you feel better—”

 

“I do.” Blaine is quick to assure him and squeezes their fingers tighter together for emphasis. “I-I am. I feel…better.” His voice his rasped and his complexion isn’t great but Kurt believes him. He’s no longer shivering and seems to be free of pain. 

 

Blaine’s eyelids start to droop and he nestles himself further back and lower onto the pillows. Kurt smiles and helps him adjust before settling himself into a more comfortable sitting position beside Blaine. He’s more than happy to sit at Blaine’s beside and care for him for however long it takes. He’ll do whatever it takes.

 

Their hands are still joined on the bed between them and Kurt sits happily watching the way their skin looks joined together.  

 

“How?” Blaine voice is quiet and gentle slicing through the silence between then. Kurt startles and freezes. He looks at Blaine and finds him looking back at him through squinting eyes. He must be fighting his tiredness with everything he has in him. 

 

“Blaine, you should rest—”

 

“—How do I feel better here, Kurt?” Blaine doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t have the energy for it but his tone is stern and sure and Kurt doesn’t want to betray Blaine’s trust or give him any reason to doubt him or feel scared. 

 

“I’ve been caring for you, Blaine.” Kurt answers steadily. “Tending to you with cloths and water. I’ve given you time that the hospital couldn’t give you. You have warmth and comfort here. You can stay here for as long as you like. For as long as you need to.” He takes the time to look at Blaine, to let Blaine look into his eyes and see and hopefully feel the sincerity that he holds there.

 

Blaine has no reason to believe him, technically he would be right not to. But Kurt hopes that he does. 

 

Blaine continues staring at Kurt for several moments. Like he’s searching for something but for what, Kurt does not know. What happens next is something that Kurt could not imagine in his wildest dreams, and his heart that has been dead and cold and non-beating for many, many long years feels likes it’s warming his chest from the inside out. It’s like something is spreading throughout Kurt, something he can only describe as being close to happiness.

 

“You’re kind of beautiful, Kurt. You know that?” Blaine croaks. There are the beginnings of a very small smile hiding at the corner of Blaine’s lips and Kurt feels his own lips try to pull up into a similar shape. 

 

The words hit Kurt deep. He doesn’t believe he has ever heard them spoken before. He feels them right through to a soul he does not believe he still has . Blaine maybe very heavily under the influence of sleep, still very ill and maybe Kurt’s blood is having some form of weird side effect on him. He may only be half conscience and he may not be able to see Kurt very well in this moment, but Kurt appreciates the words nonetheless. He holds on to them in his head and in his heart and will always keep them, no matter what. 

 

But before Kurt can try and muster some kind of response by way of gesture or words Blaine is already sliding back into what appears to be a peaceful slumber. Their hands are still joined and Blaine’s skin feels warm against Kurt’s.

 

Kurt settles himself against the pillows and sits quietly as Blaine breathes and snuffles lightly beside him.

 

Maybe, just maybe there could be a happy ending.

 

*

 

When Blaine wakes again, it is almost noon and Kurt knows that he will be hungry and maybe a little agitated. In his kitchen he fixes Blaine some tea, a small bowl of soup and some chunks of crusted bread. There is a jug of water and a glass already there for Blaine on the nightstand and Kurt has been swapping out old, dry cloths for new, moisture ones often.

 

Blaine tries to refuse, tries to say that Kurt is being too kind to him and needs to keep his food for himself but Kurt doesn’t take no for answer. Blaine doesn’t need to know that while he was sleeping, Kurt dug deep in his forgotten, unused pantry to find bread and vegetables to use for Blaine.  _ Just  _ for Blaine. 

 

He allows Kurt to help him wash up using a dish of warm, soapy water and a sponge, and then feed him afterwards. “This is so good.” Blaine moans appreciatively as Kurt dips another crust of bread into the soup and feeds it to him. 

 

What Blaine also does not know, is that Kurt has been adding drops of his own blood into Blaine’s soup and tea. Stirring them in like seasoning while Blaine has been oblivious is the next room. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. And in this case, that is certainly true.

 

Blaine also tries to say that Kurt will catch whatever it is that is making Blaine ill if he keeps him around and in his home and in his bed. Kurt half-heartedly shrugs it off, explaining he has a resilient immune system and has been careful. He explains that he has another bed down the hall and tries to hide his slight blush at the thought of how lying is becoming so easy for him to do, though it’s not something he enjoys willingly. 

 

Blaine even tries to stand on wobbly legs to convince Kurt that he can go home and that he doesn’t want to be a nuisance to Kurt anymore, but after almost falling to his knees and clutching his head with a wave of dizziness Kurt escorts him back into bed and with a stern look, orders him to stay there. 

 

When Blaine is sleeping soundly during his many naps he needs to help recover , and Kurt is sure that he won’t wake easily; Kurt lets his fangs fall and nips at his own finger tip. He pushes the pad of his finger to Blaine’s lips and rubs enticingly until Blaine latches on and sucks Kurt’s finger into his mouth to lap at the blood greedily still in a heavy state of sleep.

 

It’s a little erotic. The sensation. The whole thing really. And that is a word that Kurt has never found use for or felt compelled to say before. To him, feeding and blood drinking is just a way of life. It’s a means to get by. For Kurt, it’s never been for recreational use. And the thought of taking blood from Blaine, enough to cause him discomfort or pain or even  _ kill _ him is enough to make Kurt feel sick to his stomach. Enough to make him not want to feed at all.

 

But Blaine sucking blood from Kurt’s finger? Taking blood from him in order to stay alive and well? Well that is a thought that Kurt finds utterly thrilling. It’s new and odd and strangely wonderful to feel the things that he feels when he is with Blaine.

 

It’s  _ wonderfully _ terrifying.

 

But underneath it all there is a hunger which Kurt is determinedly trying to tame. Though, whether it’s a hunger for food or hunger for love and lust, Kurt can’t quite decide. 

 

*  

 

The routine of Kurt caring for Blaine in all ways possible continues for the whole of that day and even into the next one. It’s not until the moon settles high up in the blue-black sky as Kurt gazes at it through the window, that he realizes his plan has been working. 

 

He’s sitting on a chair that he brought in from the front room, just a few inches away from Blaine’s bed. His socked feet are propped up against the edge of the mattress after Blaine had cajoled him to do it with a cheeky smile and shining eyes that Kurt is growing so fond of. He washes up well and under the façade of an ill, grubby street musician with tattered hair and scrappy clothes is a very handsome man.

 

Blaine is obviously feeling and looking a lot better. He’s gained color in his skin, with a beautiful blush on his cheeks and chest when Kurt smiles at him. There is extra strength in his arms and chest and back and Kurt has to look away from Blaine’s growing muscles as he shifts in the bed to find a more comfortable position. 

 

He can sit up in bed now, without aid and can lift his jug to pour his own water and can dampen his forehead using the cloths that Kurt has been providing. He has even been able to stomach more than just plain soup and tea and water, gulping everything down gratefully with a boyish grin as Kurt brings it all to him and sits in his chair and talks to Blaine happily while he eats.

 

with everything that Kurt makes for Blaine to eat, he stirs in a few drops of his blood, and blames the odd discoloring or slight off taste on the meat or the pot or pan he uses. Blaine is yet to notice. He has asked why Kurt does not eat with him, which Kurt always replies with “I ate while you were sleeping.”

 

Maybe it’s just the fact that Blaine is still feeling a little woozy, but he hasn’t seemed to notice some of the other out of ordinary things about Kurt, yet. Or if he has he hasn’t called Kurt out on it. Like his sleeping pattern (or lack of.) Or his careful, well placed movements when unbeknown to Blaine he’s trying to stop his automatic speediness.   

 

All in all, at the moment, it’s working. The plan. The blood. Kurt’s blood is healing Blaine and mending him back to full health. He has not had any pains or bouts of sickness since his stay in the hospital, back when Kurt thought he was going to lose him. 

 

At this rate, if Kurt can just keep Blaine, if he can convince him to stay just a short while longer, if he can feed him just a little more of his blood and keep him stable then—

 

Kurt pulls himself out of his thoughts and looks back to the bed to find Blaine blinking up at him curiously. 

 

“You ok?” He asks, a mouthful of bread halfway to his face. 

 

Kurt has to smile. This man, this beautiful man lying in his bed who should be worried about himself; not asking Kurt if  _ he _ is ok, is completely oblivious to the fact that Kurt is secretly planning his future and well being. 

 

Though, if Kurt should question himself, he wouldn’t know how to answer should he be asked what his intentions with Blaine are; once he becomes fit and well.

 

The worry becomes obvious as a frown covers Kurt’s flawless face and Blaine lowers his bread to his plate and asks again so, so sweetly. 

 

“Kurt? Are you alright?”

 

Kurt shakes his head and squeezes his eyes closed, and when he blinks them back open again he has a bright smile plastered on his face.

 

“Yes, fine. Thank you. I was just lost in my own thoughts.” He tells Blaine as sincerely as he can manage. “How is your meal? Sufficient enough for you?” He asks and hopes that the question is enough to distract Blaine from staring at Kurt with a look of heartfelt concern. 

 

Kurt does not believe that he is deserving of such a thing.

 

Blaine looks at Kurt for just a moment longer until he grins that crookedly, sweet grin of his and begins eating again. “Delicious, as always. Thank you so much. I don’t know how I could ever repay you for your kindness—”

 

“No repayment needed.” Kurt is quick to interrupt Blaine and leans forward in his chair to place a hand on Blaine’s lap. It’s a gesture that has become so familiar between them. 

 

“Well a thank you, then?” Blaine covers Kurt’s hand with his own. “I must you thank you. You-you saved my life, Kurt.” 

 

Kurt can only hope that that is the case. That he has saved Blaine’s life and not just prolonged it. He had wanted to help Blaine, but he can’t deny that it had been for all selfless reasons. Having Blaine’s companionship has been more of a reward than Kurt could ever need. It’s been a long and lonely many a year for Kurt since vampirism overruled and became his entire existence. Knowing Blaine and talking to him and holding his hand no matter the circumstances has filled a void in Kurt’s life that he never thought to be possible.

 

There is nothing from Blaine that Kurt could want or take from him. No matter how hungry or weak he’s starting to feel, even Blaine’s blood is of no importance to Kurt in comparison to Blaine’s whole self. His  _ living  _ self. 

 

“You-you could play for me?” Kurt asks and whips a hand up to his mouth unsure and surprised of where the question came from. But the  _ want  _ is there. Blaine looks at him curiously with a small smile and when Kurt leans down to pick up his violin case from the floor, Blaine’s smile lights up his entire face. “I’d love to hear you play, sometime.” Kurt says and softly and bites his lip as he hands the case over to Blaine.

 

“You saved this too? For me?” Blaine whispers, his voice a little broken and watery as he carefully traces a fingertip over the intricate, carved pattern on the box. The violin had been a gift from his parents before he came to England and Blaine had never been parted from it since.

 

Kurt nods. “Would you?” He asks, smiling. “When you’re feeling better, could you play for me? I would love that.” 

 

Blaine blinks back a tear of what Kurt hopes to be gratitude and nods. “Yes. Absolutely. Anything, for you, Kurt. Thank you.”  

 

And every ounce of control that Kurt thought he had left in him, the thoughts powering the fuel to let Blaine go, all seem to dissolve in that moment. 

 

Kurt aches. Blaine may not be  _ his,  _ no matter how bad Kurt yearns for it. But, Kurt is definitely and irrevocably Blaine’s.

 

*

 

The next day sees Blaine looking the best that Kurt has ever seen him. His complexion is not only no longer pale but there is a beautiful olive glow growing over his arms and neck and face.

 

He’s washed and clean shaven with Kurt’s bedside assistance and is finally out of that horrid hospital gown and now wearing and looking rather lovely in what Kurt claims to be one of his old sleep tunics. 

 

Blaine’s mood is light and happy and he hasn’t stopped talking all morning. Kurt has even heard him hum a tune or two while down the hall in the kitchen, adding some scarlet drops to Blaine’s breakfast.

 

He doesn’t know how long he will continue sneaking his blood into Blaine’s meals. Blaine already seems like he is back to full health but Kurt does not want to take any premature chances or risks. Blaine had still been very heavily under the influence of his illness and too much sleep, when Kurt began his process of trying to heal Blaine. Now that he is fit and well and more physically, mentally and emotionally capable, Kurt worries that he may start to acknowledge the odd occurrences around Kurt and his home.

 

But Kurt can’t worry about that. Not now, not yet. He simply wants to enjoy Blaine.

 

*  

 

When Blaine finally plays for Kurt with his beloved violin as his promised thank you gift, he’s seated on the edge of the mattress on top of the covers. A day has passed and Blaine is now well enough to leave the bed.

 

Kurt feels like he’s on borrowed time, but can’t quite work out why . 

 

It’s morning, but Kurt had drawn the curtains over the bedroom window like he does every time the sun starts to crawl up on the horizon. Blaine watches curiously but does not question, he assumes Kurt’s intentions are for the best, like always. The candle is lit on the nightstand and it’s providing as much light as needed, casting a wonderful shadow over Blaine as he sits primly with his fiddle propped up under his chin. 

 

He’s wearing a white blouse and over it a waistcoat, a beautifully fitted beige colored garment that Kurt had made especially for Blaine, but would not ever dare tell him so. Blaine would not accept it if he knew. Blaine had thanked Kurt profusely for lending him the clothes and had promised to return them. The hospital must have discarded of his old worn and torn rags and Blaine was  yet again grateful for Kurt. 

 

The waistcoat is not as intricately designed or richly patterned as the burgundy piece Kurt is wearing, matched with a peacock blue suit and a gemstone clipped ascot. Kurt knows that Blaine is a proud man; he would not do or even wear something that overestimates his position and his worth. He has worked hard to get to where he is in this life, he’s proud of it and Kurt would never try to belittle that or force him to forget it. 

 

Though, Kurt sees the way Blaine looks at him, at the cut of his clothes and the décor of the room he has been in for the past few days. He sees the fond but noted shimmer in Blaine’s eyes as he observes. Blaine has not lived like Kurt has, that is obvious to see. He’s much too aware of Kurt’s worth and the way they have lived very different styles of living up to this moment.

 

Kurt sits in the chair not far from Blaine and sways and claps and smiles delightedly as Blaine plays for him an array of tunes and lyrics to match. Blaine’s singing voice is utterly mesmerizing to Kurt, though it shouldn’t surprise him.  _ Everything _ about Blaine is mesmerizing to Kurt.

 

And it’s in that moment when Kurt is captivated, completely lost in the depth of Blaine’s eyes as they look down at his own hands working the bow delicately across the strings of the instrument as he sings along softly; that Kurt realizes something.

 

_ This _ is Blaine. This is the man he had hoped to see all those days ago, back when Blaine had been nothing but a lump on a hospital gurney. This is Blaine alive and well, performing happily and beautifully.

 

Kurt has done his job and fulfilled his purpose. He has done what he had promised himself and to Blaine. What now? What is he to do now?

 

Blaine stops playing as Kurt stares off into space, distracted by his thoughts. Blaine gently puts down his instrument, tucking it carefully back into its box and gets up from the bed, crossing the room in slow, small steps as he approaches Kurt quietly like a frightened animal. 

 

When Kurt finally blinks and refocuses his gaze on Blaine coming toward him, Blaine smiles at him and kneels down to the ground beside Kurt’s leg. He tentatively places a hand on Kurt’s knee. 

 

“You seem a little occupied with your thoughts at the moment.” Blaine says softly and quietly, still smiling some. 

 

Kurt musters up a little smile of his own but doesn’t answer Blaine. He  _ can’t _ . He doesn’t know what words to use, what to say to keep Blaine here with him any longer. So, instead he says, “you play wonderfully. Beautifully. Thank you.”

 

“No.  _ Thank you, Kurt. _ ” Blaine is quick to reply, giving Kurt’s knee a squeeze with his fingers. His skin is warm and soft, healthy from Kurt’s constant care. There is a slight blush on his cheeks, its lovely and Kurt wonders if it’s caused because of Kurt complimenting him or just because of the proximity of their bodies right now. “You have been so very kind to me. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you.”

 

He looks at Kurt so reverently that it almost hurts Kurt a little to look back at him. Slowly, Blaine reaches a hand up to caress Kurt’s cheek, but Kurt flinches and leans back and away from Blaine’s touch. The movement is a little quick and startling and Blaine removes his hand and gets up from the floor quickly. He stands, poised by the bed with his hands by his sides.  

 

Blaine had always been too sick or asleep whenever they would hold hands, skin on skin. He wasn’t aware of the coolness of Kurt’s touch. But now he may be. 

 

Kurt eyes are bright and shining, orbs of silver and electric blue. He’s pretty sure that if the room were any darker his eyes would be glowing. Blaine looks at him curiously, silently. He walks over to the window and with what looks to be a moment of hesitation he reaches out to pull the drapes open.

 

This time, Kurt’s movement in order to get to the window to stop Blaine from letting the sunlight in,  _ is  _ too fast. “Please, don’t do that.” He barely whispers, yanking the heavy curtain back in to place. 

 

When he turns back around from the window, he readies himself to face Blaine. He’s expecting a scared and lost look on Blaine’s face, maybe waiting for him to run off or yell and demand an explanation. 

 

He doesn’t expect to see Blaine standing by the door perfectly poised, with his head tilted to the side. His gaze is dark and curious, a little scrutinizing but Kurt doesn’t mind. He watches Blaine, waits him out.

 

A beat later and Blaine walks out of the bedroom door into the hallway, with long stomping strides. Kurt follows, closely but not too close. He’s sure that Blaine is going to leave. That he’s going to go straight out the front door, down the steps to the main cobbled street and never come back.

 

Kurt will never see him again. He has mere seconds left to remember Blaine, to drink in the sight and smell of him.

 

Blaine stops in the middle of the front room and Kurt halts behind him, a few feet away stood in the molded arch of the entry way. Blaine’s eyes sweep around the room. They fall on to the heavy curtains drawn closely together over the large window. Kurt silently urges Blaine not to go over there and try and do the same as he did in the bedroom.

 

Blaine turns his head and looks at Kurt. He bites his lip and frowns then looks away. Kurt watches how Blaine notices the piano, his breath hitches and his shoulders rise and fall a little. He turns to the couch, the only other piece of furniture in the room and in seconds he’s moving again but not towards the front door like Kurt had feared.

 

Blaine goes into every large, vacant room of Kurt’s home. He notes how each room is dark, saved from sunlight and very nearly empty with just pieces of scattered furniture, gathered with dust, looking as brand new as the day they were made.

 

Kurt does not follow Blaine into each room, he stands in the hallway and waits. Blaine deserves this, the time and the privacy to work things out. Kurt has done no harm to him in anyway, he has given Blaine nothing but care and kindness, but still Blaine doesn’t deserved to be lied to.

 

When Blaine joins Kurt again in the hallway, he stands many steps away from him with wide, bulging eyes and his skin a little paler than the healthy, glowing complexion it had begun to show.

 

“There are no other beds in any of the rooms here.” Blaine says. It’s phrased like a question but not stated so. 

 

Kurt is a little bit surprised that it’s the first thing that Blaine says to him, but he’s not surprised at the low volume of Blaine’s voice or the calmness of his tone. Blaine simply does not have a bad bone in his body, he does not have the functional organs needed to produce hate or animosity. Blaine is a considerate, kind and gentle soul, filled with love and light.

 

Kurt will not insult Blaine’s intelligence by telling him he has been sleeping on the couch. He knows that Blaine hadn’t found any extra sets of bedding in any of the numerous cupboards and drawers and closets when he had been looking. Kurt had heard the creek of the doors and the slide of the drawers and had let Blaine carry on his task.

 

Kurt says nothing in reply to Blaine. He knows that Blaine is not finished his inquisition. If anything, Blaine deserves to figure this out and to do so on his own terms.

 

“You say you slept when I was sleeping. But, where?” Another question that Kurt knows he need not answer. He lets Blaine continue. “You never look tired. I’ve never seen you eat or drink.” Blaine gestures towards the darkened lounge. “You have an obvious disliking to sunlight. Even when—when I was sick in hospital, I still only recall you visiting me at night.”

 

Though Blaine is still very calm and reserved and his voice steady, his face looks troubled. His handsome face- now free of rubble and dirt from the streets, clear of bags and wrinkles and overgrown scruff.

 

“This house. It’s very big for just one person. Though, it is bare. So, very bare. What do you do with your time? How do you afford such a luxurious home yet never leave?” Kurt still remains quiet, letting Blaine finish, though he gives Blaine all of his attention and an unwavering, deep gaze. “You look young.  _ Too _ young for any of it.”

 

“You move very carefully. Slowly. You’re very well spoken compared to other folk around these parts. You dress impeccably.” Blaine gestures to the clothes he  _ himself  _ is wearing, given to him by Kurt. “You made these, too. I know you did, I can tell. How? Where do you acquire such expensive fabric?”

 

Blaine exhales a long breath and is quiet for a few extended moments. He ducks his chin and closes his eyes, deep in thought. When he looks up again he takes a few daring steps forward, towards Kurt until they’re standing face to face. 

 

“You are more beautiful than anyone I have ever seen.” He whispers. “Your skin is so pale and clear. So striking. Almost—almost ethereal. Other-worldly.” His voice is rasped, his deep amber eyes search Kurt’s face and even though the hallway is dark apart from a few dimly lit candle sconces, his eyes are bright and burning. 

 

“You’re not human.” Blaine breathes. 

 

And there it is. 

 

Kurt holds Blaine’s eye contact steady and sure and only slightly tilts his head into a subtle but noticeable nod. Blaine’s gasp is audible, his eyes wide but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t look away. 

 

“How are you living? What do you eat?” Kurt is caught off guard a little with Blaine’s last question. He wasn’t expecting Blaine to still be standing here at all let alone ask such a bold question.

 

Kurt can’t answer. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s that he can’t quite find the word, to make it stick on his tongue as he says it out loud. Spoken aloud, it sounds so foul and dirty. 

 

_ Blood.  _

 

Kurt knows that Blaine will be just as aware of the folklore tales and myths floating around the city as anybody else living here. There are traditions and religious passages, that all state what nobody will say for fear of punishment. 

 

That there are dark souls living among us.

 

And so, Kurt does the only thing that he feels capable of doing in that moment. He opens his mouth and slowly lets his long, white, gleaming fangs descend until they are resting against his plump, pink bottom lip. The sharp tips of his fangs prod into the cushion of his lower lip, but the feeling is rather comfortable for Kurt. It’s natural and real. It’s  _ home. _

 

Kurt can see the very moment when Blaine’s thoughts take a turn and his imagination scatters. Kurt, tall and slender with a young face and a pure heart; without him even moving an inch, has become an animal of the night in front of Blaine’s very eyes. 

 

He has not moved, not one bit yet suddenly Blaine sees him for who he really is, inside. A dark maturity overshadows Kurt’s very presence.    

 

Kurt watches Blaine’s eyes widen until it looks almost painful. He bites his own lip as a slight tremor works its way up his body and ends with a silent shiver. His eyelids start to fall back down into a less painful position, he licks his lips, sucks one of them into his mouth, goes back to biting again. All the while his amber eyes become hooded and dark. His breathing is hitched and a little staccato like and all Kurt can do is stand there and watch and listen and  _ feel _ as Blaine’s emotions overwhelm him.

 

“How did you do it?” Blaine asks and Kurt knows not to ask him to explain. But Blaine does anyway. “How did you save my life? How did you nurse me back to full health?”

 

As if it were a well rehearsed routine, Kurt lifts his pointer finger and carefully slides it against his fang resting against his lip. The tip digs into the pad of his finger until it slices open with a precise little dot and a well of deep red blood. 

 

It’s answer enough. 

 

Blaine swallows. “Y-you’re—” Blaine’s voice is a little shaky and quiet. He chokes off, clears his throat and then speaks again and when he does his voice is much more steady and certain. “You’re not a demon, Kurt.”

 

Kurt feels winded, and knocked out cold and born again all rolled into one. He can’t talk, can’t move. Can only stare- dumbfounded.

 

“You’re too kind, Kurt.” Blaine’s voice is soft and so unexpected, his eyes hooded and warm. “You have a soul, and a heart, a big heart- beating or not. Your behavior, your traits and your will are not demonized.”

 

It feels as though time has stopped between them, that they are stuck in slow motion. Before either of them are aware that he’s doing it, Blaine raises a hand and very carefully brushes his fingers against Kurt wrist, hanging limp beside his leg.

 

He flinches at the hard, marble coolness of Kurt’s skin, though it is soft,  _ so very soft  _ and appealing. Blaine looks up into Kurt’s eyes, he waits for a reaction, waits for something.  _ Anything.  _ And when nothing happens but Kurt staring back at him like a dear caught in headlights, Blaine wraps his fingers around Kurt’s wrist and squeezes.

 

“Thank you. Thank you for your aid and your care and kindness. No matter what you have been told or believe, you  _ are  _ a person. A good one. Just like me, like anybody else.” 

 

If Kurt still had to rely on breathing to live, he thinks he would be dead by now. It’s all too much. Too much to hear, to take in, to  _ believe _ . For All of his immortal life he has waited for such words to be spoken to him, for such  _ acceptance. _ And hear it is, by way of a beautiful stranger who has become a fond friend and the keeper of Kurt’s vacant heart.

 

“But—” Kurt feels something squeeze in his chest, a heavy weight inside of him dropping from his throat down to his toes. Blaine’s fingers unravel from around Kurt’s wrist. The warmth and comfort that they had been providing leaves Kurt’s body in an instant cold rush. 

 

“—But I cannot stay here with you any longer. I cannot provide you with what you need from me.” Kurt’s temples throb and pound and his throat feels suddenly dry.  _ Blood.  _ He wobbles slightly on the spot as Blaine slowly starts to back away towards the front door. “I respect you enough to end our journey here and walk away. Thank you, Kurt. Be well and be safe.”

 

The door is opening and closing again much too quickly and before Kurt can think or move; Blaine is gone.

 

*

 

Blaine feels like he’s been walking for  _ hours.  _ He probably has. 

 

He does not go back to the hospital. He  _ can’t, _ he’s supposed to be dead. The hospital staff do not know that he was taken in the dead of night by a…a  _ vampire _ and was brought back to his lair.

 

_ Kurt.  _ Blaine’s head feels too big for his shoulders, his temples throb and pulse to one heavy beat ringing through his ears and his heart.  _ Kurt. Kurt. Kurt. _

 

Blaine only hopes he is not recognized as he walks the streets that morning. He assumes not- sickness has been rife around London- and the few hardworking staff at the hospital would be much too busy providing aid rather than committing faces to memory. 

 

Besides, he has no reason to return to the hospital, he is no longer ill. All thanks to… Kurt.  _ Kurt. _ His name feels heavy even when Blaine just thinks of it. A permanent, steady presence that has been erased.  

The morning is light, the sun out, but not too high or too bright and there are white clouds floating along up in the blue sky above. The town is not too busy today, a scattering of people rather than the usual full crowds. It might be a Sunday. Blaine wouldn’t know, he has no idea of what time or day it is, not since…he had taken ill.

 

With every corner Blaine turns or street he crosses, he feels like he’s being followed.  _ Watched.  _ But when he turns around, there is nobody there. With an ache in his head and an uneasy feeling lining his stomach and chest he continues his journey to goodness knows where. 

 

He knows that he can go home, that it wouldn’t take long for him to find his way, but for some reason he just doesn’t want to. The  words home and his little flat no longer mean the same thing.. Not now.

 

In the hours he has spent walking and moping, he thinks he has it all figured it out now,. Somewhere between his investigative thoughts and Kurt baring his fangs to him just hours ago, Blaine’s memory has started providing him little segments, like pieces of a puzzle slotting back together. He remembers, he  _ knows.  _ And yet, doesn’t care.

 

Why did he leave? Why did he not leave sooner? Why did he question, Kurt? Why should he not have?

 

His mind feels fuzzy and is heart heavy. He’s feels somehow lost, not only in the physical sense, but emotionally,  _ spiritually _ . He almost  _ died  _ and now feels more alive than ever before but there’s a chunk of  _ something  _ not there. Something isn’t right. He feels empty and longing- but for what? He’s not sure.

 

Blaine clutches at his head and is sure he can feel the overwhelming sense of another presence shadowing over him but when he opens his eyes and spins around on the spot, he is alone. He’s alone,  _ again.  _

 

Finally after some pondering, Blaine stumbles his way through the streets and eventually ends up back at his flat. 

 

Once inside he practically falls down on to his couch with his newly made clothes still on and his grey trench coat pooling around his waist, he gives into his weariness . 

 

His head is spinning with thoughts and images of Kurt, Kurt,  _ Kurt  _ as he slips and slides under into an unwanted but necessary, fitful sleep.

 

*

 

Blaine dreams of…him. Of,  _ Kurt.  _ Who else? Nobody has made such an impact on Blaine’s life as much as the man with the young and beautiful face. The endearing and captivating voice.  _ Those eyes _ . And of course that pink and plump, delicious mouth. 

 

The mouth that Blaine secretly  _ aches _ to be touched with. 

 

The mouth that also could possibly  _ kill _ him. 

 

Blaine shudders and wakes himself by almost falling off of the couch. He’s been moaning and groaning, writhing against the old worn fabric.

 

He’s sweating, his curls are half stuck to his head and half sticking up in disarray. He shrugs out of his coat and lets it pool to the floor at his feet. He unbuttons the cuff of his sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows. After loosening the button at the collar of his shirt he inhales a few deep, calming breaths and sits up and rubs at his eyes.

 

When Blaine blinks his eyes open blearily and gazes off toward the corner of his small room, his eyes focus in on something. 

 

There’s a small blackbox standing up against the wall. 

 

His violin case . The one that Blaine had accidentally left in his haste at…Kurt’s.

 

_ Kurt. _

 

Blaine is suddenly aware  that Kurt is there in his home. Not because he can see or hear him. He knows that Kurt will be perfectly able to go undetected if that’s the way he wants it. But because Blaine can  _ feel him. _

 

Kurt’s name pounds in his chest. It feels as though he’s flowing through his very… _ veins. _

 

_ Veins. Blood. Kurt. _

 

Blaine’s heart drops from his throat to stomach, his eyes widen and he gasps and chokes all at the same time. Blaine has Kurt’s blood inside of him, cascading around his body like a lifeline. Kurt  _ is  _ Blaine’s lifeline. Kurt  _ is  _ inside of Blaine. 

 

“Why did you risk harm to yourself by exposing yourself to daylight?” Blaine asks into thin air, his voice rasped and fragile. He’s sitting perfectly still, facing the wall with his head in his hands.

 

Silence.

 

“Don’t tell me because you wanted to bring my violin to me. I don’t believe that.” He says again, his voice starting to rise in pitch with slight annoyance and indignation.

 

“I wanted you to have it back.” The voice says.  _ That  _ voice, so familiar. Blaine feels it more than he hears it. Like a distant echo in his heart and his head. “It’s important to me that you have it back. It’s yours.”

 

“You’ve watched me, haven’t you? You’ve followed me all of this way? How did you do that? Why?”

 

Kurt approaches Blaine out of nowhere, like he’s been standing up against that wall the whole time and Blaine was completely oblivious. His steps are small and quiet, his face passive but oh so lovely. 

 

Blaine’s breath catches in his throat and he sits up straight but he doesn’t move. He has nothing to fear from Kurt. He knows that, deep down to his bones and very core.

 

“ _ You  _ are important to me.” Kurt says, his voice a reverent whisper. “I am  _ yours _ .” 

 

Blaine swallows hard but watches and listens. He’s not compelled to; he just needs to, he  _ wants  _ to. He feels a little lightheaded and needs to really concentrate on what Kurt is doing and what he’s saying.  _ Kurt, Kurt, Kurt. _

 

Blaine’s heart is listening. It’s listening intently, taking Kurt’s words and keeping them locked down tight.    

 

“I didn’t know this would happen. When I saved you.” Kurt says,  gesturing between the two of them. “I just knew that I had to try. To keep you alive.” Blaine remains silent but stands so that he is a few feet away from Kurt. Scared is the last thing he feels.

 

Kurt looks so pained, so grief-stricken yet still so, so beautiful. There is no mask or guise to hide behind. His intentions are as crystal clear as his complexion. Blaine’s heart squeezes tightly in chest at the sight of him. 

 

Kurt, though wonderfully long and lean, is holding himself all wrong. His shoulders are slouched, his back slightly humped. His arms folded over his chest like he’s keeping himself together, hands entwined at his middle.

 

And before Blaine is even aware of what he’s thinking or  _ doing _ , he takes a step forward toward Kurt with one hand extended. “You’re not ok.” Blaine says quietly. It’s a statement. Gentle and correct. “The-the sun…is it-are you—”

 

“I can keep myself in the shadows.” Kurt says softly. “I have…skills I can use. I can manipulate time and space, even light. Human minds.” Blaine inhales softly and slowly, it’s neither a gasp nor a surprised intake of breath. “But never on you.” Kurt is quick to supply. “I-I haven’t needed to with you. I wouldn’t want to.”

 

Blaine nods. He  _ knows.  _ He just does. 

 

“I can do it briefly before the effects wear off. You know, go out during the day and hide, but I-I had to make sure that you got home safely. I  _ had  _ to come.” Blaine nods again, it’ something else that he just knows, he feels it too. These feelings, these desires and thoughts, they’re all mutual. “Um- it’s just that, I-I’m—”

 

_ Hungry. _ Blaine’s brain supplies the word for him as quick as a flash and before he can contemplate it the word is sitting on his tongue and then out of his mouth.

 

“You’re hungry. You need to feed.” Kurt does nothing but stand there and stare back at Blaine. He doesn’t need to confirm or clarify anything. 

 

Blaine drops his gaze, he shifts a foot against the dusty hardwood floor. He’s still wearing his boots. “Will-will you go to the hospital?” He asks, his voice whisper soft. He sounds a little broken.

 

Kurt’s face falls. He knows what Blaine is asking, what he’s  _ implying.  _ Blaine knows everything, now. And the though is somehow unsettling yet also freeing to Kurt. Like a weight has been lifted, a shadow cleared from hanging over his many years of a damned life.   

 

“I-I don’t know.” He replies. “I used to. I was my putting them out their misery. Ending their suffering—”  

 

“I know.” Blaine interrupts him, softly. Though, now he’s taken the last few steps between them and is touching Kurt. A gentle caress of his fingers, smoothing over the back of Kurt’s hand. “It’s an act of kindness, I know. You don’t take what’s not yours to take.”

 

Kurt doesn’t know what else to say, or how else to say it even if he could find the words. 

 

He had always thought that feeding from somebody, gaining the necessary nutrients from their blood was his release. His way of taking something from this life, the only thing that’s remotely his to take from this cruel world.

 

But now he knows, that this isn’t true. It’s not the case. Not anymore.

 

Blaine is Kurt’s release. His sanity. He’s the other half of him. He keeps him whole and gives him purpose. A purpose in this rotten old world. And blood doesn’t even have to come in to it. 

 

“I-I don’t think that I can do that-again. You know-um take from some—”

 

Blaine’s hand moves from Kurt’s, successfully cutting him off. It traces up his clothed covered arm softly and doesn’t stop until his fingers are resting against the firm line of Kurt’s jaw. They lock eyes then, an instant rush of electric chemistry and raw emotion.

 

Blaine’s hand continues to move up Kurt’s face, skin on skin. Cool against warm. The sensation is thrilling and almost reviving. Blaine’s fingers slide into Kurt’s hairline, just a bit. He angles his hand so that his palm now rests against the apple of Kurt’s smooth cheek. 

 

And his wrist sits gently, just underneath Kurt’s nose. Kurt’s nostrils flare all on their own accord. Blaine’s blood pumps through his veins, under the filmy paper thin skin of his inner wrist. And Kurt can smell it, he can feel it.

 

Blaine looks at Kurt deeply, eyes burning, shining with sincerity and utter conviction. He shifts his wrist slightly and Kurt feels it. A careful but pleading nudge. Kurt  _ knows  _ what it is. What it means. 

 

It’s answer enough.

 

“You have me, now. Take from me.  _ Please _ .” Blaine breathes.   

 

And there it is. 

 

Their  _ forever _ .

 

 

 

The end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive (and kind) comments and criticism are always greatly appreciated, thank you.


End file.
